


Weight & Anchor

by peevee



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, First Meetings, Horror Elements, Mutual Pining, Treat, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:41:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28752327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: Gertrude and Agnes meet for the first time.
Relationships: Agnes Montague/Gertrude Robinson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 13
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	Weight & Anchor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syrupwit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/gifts).



> Happy chocobox, syrupwit! Hope you enjoy :)

There’s a picture that Agnes keeps in a little carved wooden box. It’s a polaroid, worn at the edges from age and repeated handling, and on the back, in spidery block capitals are the letters _G. R. 69_.

In the photograph, a young, severe-looking woman looks directly into the lens of the camera, her hair pulled tightly back from her thin face. She wears a wool coat with a rounded collar, a cigarette held loosely between the fingers of her right hand. 

Even as Agnes touches the shiny surface of the paper she feels that ever familiar weight pulling at her. Steadying her in a way that’s become almost tenderly familiar against the rush of hot fury and destruction that wants to consume everything around her.

The door to the little cafe squeaks on its hinges as it opens, and Agnes looks up from her untouched cup of coffee. The staff there barely notice her any more, but the woman who has stepped through the door has a gaze that feels like knives as it settles on Agnes, the blue of her eyes oddly intense. 

“Agnes,” she says. There’s little inflection in her voice as she winds her scarf from her neck and settles into the chair opposite Agnes. Her eyes flick sharply down to the photograph, then back up to Agnes’ face. “Hmm. I’m not so young any more.”

“Hello, Gertrude,” says Agnes. The name feels odd on her tongue. Has she ever spoken it aloud before? She and Gertrude have been entwined for so long it’s difficult to remember what it felt like to be without her, but Agnes has always thought of her as… a concept. An anchor, a pair of concrete shoes cast about her feet. She has no explanation for the photograph, but she knows that she would reduce anyone who tried to take it from her to ashes.

Gertrude orders a cup of coffee and holds it between her hands to warm them. It must be cold outside; her cheeks and nose are red with it, and the windows of the cafe are steamed up with the collective breath of its occupants. While she drinks, Agnes watches her. The sharpness of her features, the grey in her hair, and underneath all of it a burning, white-hot fury that calls to Agnes so clearly that she can almost see it simmering behind Gertrude’s eyes.

“We understand one another, I think,” is what Gertrude says eventually. “I trust you, foolish as it may be. And you’re the only one who… well. If you’d care to help me, I would appreciate it.”

One of her hands rests on the table between them, scarred and wrinkled, and Agnes wants to reach out and touch it. Make a true physical connection between them, Gertrude’s bony fingers held in her own. She keeps her hands held in her lap and meets Gertrude’s eyes.

Describing a pain as pure and exquisite as Sarah Carpenter suffered should be impossible, but Agnes finds that the words flow freely as she sits before Gertrude and tells her of that ferocious, burning heat. The way her flesh melted, her bones charred and cracked, her screams swallowed up by her cooking vocal cords before they even had time to leave her throat. When she’s finished, Gertrude’s expression is like hardened ice. 

“There will be some paperwork, I imagine,” she says, “but I think this particular destruction will be easy enough to authorise.” Her voice is just as inflectionless as before, her mouth a thin, bloodless line and Agnes feels that desperate longing to touch her, to imbue her with heat, with warmth. There would be something beautiful about Gertrude’s thin fingers as the flesh dripped from them like wax.

“Agnes -” Gertrude begins, and for the first time she seems lost for words, hesitant. One of her hands twitches, then draws back to her side. She sighs, her hand going to her pocket. 

“I need a cigarette. Terrible habit, I know.”

“I’ve always quite liked the taste,” says Agnes, and as Gertrude stands and gathers her scarf, there might be something like a smile hovering on her mouth. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” says Gertrude, and makes room for Agnes to squeeze past her in the tiny space, carefully not touching any part of her. Outside, her breath clouds in the air, masking the steam rising from Agnes’ bare arms. 

“Here,” says Agnes, holding out a finger to her in invitation. Gertrude glances at her, then leans down to touch the end of her cigarette to it, taking a long draw when it starts to glow. She blinks, then blows out a cloud of smoke and steam, and Agnes closes her eyes and breathes in deep.


End file.
